


Pleading to the Stars

by halfsweet



Series: Parallel AU [15]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Patrick-centric, set during Mania tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: It's been months since he's trapped in his head and a little over a week since he left Brendon. With everything that's been going on, he doesn't think he can make it until the end of Mania tour.





	Pleading to the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> okay this is like, THREE MONTHS overdue. i'm so sorry. but you have NO idea how glad i am to have /finally/ put this out!
> 
> (unedited)

He can’t believe it. He _actually_ did it. He feels stupid—the stupidest person in the world—because he _really_ does it this time.

He left the only person who loves and cares about him.

He left the only person who has been nothing but loyal and patient to him.

_He left Brendon._

Alone in a motel just off the side of the town, where none of the people there know him, he laughs bitterly to himself, ignoring the hot tears that are pooling in his eyes.

God, he’s so stupid.

He won’t be surprised if Brendon hates him. Refuses to forgive him, even.

He deserves it.

-

He’s awake. Again.

His eyes are wide open with the familiar sting of fatigueness and tears as he stares up at the ceiling in the dark room. One sleeping pill is not working for him anymore. After one hour of taking it, he’s still wide awake and unable to sleep. Everything feels too cold. The room is too cold. The bed is too cold. Too big.

Too empty.

The blanket isn’t enough to keep him warm.

He needs Brendon.

He needs Brendon to keep him warm. Keep him safe. Keep him sane from the thoughts in his head.

But Brendon doesn’t need him.

-

He knows he’s stronger than this. They’ve been apart for far longer. Both of them were on their respective tours at the same time, and they barely had time to call, let alone meet. They once had not seen each other for a solid month, and yet—

And yet, right now, just less than a week apart, his heart is already broken and shattered.

He moves his thumb away from the screen on his phone—it was previously hovering over the _Call_ button for about a minute—and presses the power button to turn it off.

Brendon’s happy, right? Brendon doesn’t need him.

That’s why Brendon hasn’t called him.

And that’s why he won’t call Brendon. Because Brendon doesn’t need him.

-

It’s a wonder how he manages to keep up the act in front of his friends. Scratch that. It’s a wonder how he manages to keep up the act in front of _Pete_ and _Joe_.

It has been over a week since—since he ran away? Since he _unofficially_ broke up with Brendon? Since he _left_ Brendon?—that night. Part of him is glad that they haven’t noticed anything, but the other part of him is anxious. There’s no doubt that Spencer knows. If Spencer knows, then Zack knows.

They’re probably talking about him now.

They're probably talking about how they're glad that he finally left after so long, how he finally took the hint that Brendon never wanted him, and how he  

Joe's yelp breaks him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Joe and Pete joking around in the recording room. He glances down at the sheets of lyrics in his hands. They’re Pete’s words.

Pete’s thoughts.

Pete’s feelings.

Pete’s _honest_ feelings.

_I hate all my friends // If I can get my shit together I’m gonna run away and never see any of you again_

His fingers clench, crumpling the paper in the process as Pete’s and Joe’s laughter rings in the background. They’re bickering, trading insults and laughing, like Pete’s latest adjustments to the lyrics aren’t something big.

_I hate all my friends_

_I hate all my friends_

_“Welcome to the band! From now on, we’re going to be best friends!”_

He’s Pete’s friend.

And Pete hates him.

His throat closes up as he places the lyrics back on the table before standing up to leave. Pete and Joe are still arguing, not sparing a glance or even realizing that he’s leaving. He closes the door gently behind him, heart growing heavier as Pete’s lyrics bounce in his mind.

_I hate all my friends_

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. If he were Pete, or anyone, really, he’d hate him too.

_-_

The tour has just begun. If he were himself six months back, or when they were in the beginning stages of MANIA, he would be excited and walking up and down the halls in the arena checking the venue out while doing vocal warm-up.

But now.

Now he’s just sitting in the dressing room, everyone bustling around him like bees doing last minute preparation for the show that night as he tries to make himself small. Invisible.

It works. People come and go, but they don’t notice him.

They don’t notice the lump on the couch. The static lump, unimportant, merely a speck of dust in everyone’s bright world. A speck of dust in a galaxy of stars.

“Rick?”

He focuses his gaze on the voice calling for him. Pete’s standing by the door, gesturing with him to move with a jerk of his chin. “Come on. It’s sound check. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Oh.” He gets up from the couch. “Right. Sorry. Let’s go.”

As he walks past Pete, he completely misses the worried look on his friend’s face.

-

He can still remember how they spent their Halloween last year. Their silly, little mischief that ended up with both of them skipping Pete’s party. They were just full of smiles and laughters and happiness and _everything._

What went wrong?

They were happy and on top of their games—him taking Fall Out Boy in a brand new direction with the other guys and Brendon fulfilling his dream to be in Broadway—and then… and then…

And then everything just came collapsing down on him. Weighing him down. Crushing him. The chain and lock broke and released everything that he’d kept for so long, since the pre-hiatus and the hiatus days, and everything was just _so_ overwhelming and the pressure kept getting more and _more_ intense until it suddenly stopped.

Or maybe he’d become too numb to it all.

The pills helped, in a way.  Once he’d stopped taking them, he started to feel again. He felt down, angry, sad, irritated, but he _felt._ At the expense of his mental health and relationship with Brendon.

A pang of regret hits his chest as he looks down at his phone, opened to his Instagram. Pictures upon pictures of people in their Halloween costumes fill his feed, but one in particular makes him stop scrolling down.

It’s a picture of Brendon and their friends, all smiling from ear-to-ear with matching Halloween costumes.

He did the right thing— breaking up with him, that is. Brendon deserves to be happy. Brendon is meant to be big, not held down by… by _him._

He can see how happy, how _free_ , Brendon looks nowadays. Going live on Instagram, going out with his friends, celebrating Halloween.

He's glad, though. This is how Brendon is supposed to live his life.

Not with him by his side.

-

He knows he can’t keep it a secret for so long. Somehow, someway, time will always catch up to him. No matter how fast he runs, it will always be right there behind him. Following him. Observing him. Waiting for the right moment to trip him.

And the moment comes right as he walks out of the bus and meets none other than Spencer Smith talking with Pete.

He freezes at the mini stairs of the bus, one hand holding the frame of the door for support.

Spencer… Spencer doesn’t know, right?

As if his luck couldn’t get any worse, Spencer turns his head slightly, and when he sees him, Spencer’s eyes narrow slightly.

His heart stops, his lungs freezing, and suddenly he can’t move or breathe. He can’t even feel anything under his legs.

Spencer knows. _Spencer knows._ Shit, if Spencer isn’t here to kill him, then he’s probably here to beat him up.

“Patrick.” Spencer greets with a nod as he walks towards him.

Mind going blank, he can only think of nothing but _‘run’_ as he allows his legs to carry him as fast as they can to anywhere from there. _From Spencer._

He knows what he did. He doesn’t need other people to tell him how idiotic and moronic he was for leaving Brendon like that. But the thing is, they just _don’t understand._

They won’t understand that Brendon was tired of him.

He was only doing Brendon a favour.

_He didn't do anything wrong._

-

The entire time, he’s been hiding out inside the arena to avoid Spencer. He knows that by now, Spencer must have called Brendon and told him how much of a coward he is for running away. And Brendon’s probably laughing and agreeing with him. With a new person in his arms.

He leans back on a couch in one of the rooms in the arena and closes his eyes. He can’t go to their dressing room; that’s the first place everyone will look for him. So, this is his best bet. No one will be able to find him, and he’s finally going to have some peace with his mind.

As much peace as he can get, anyway.

Sighing, he pulls his hat off his head, fingers clutching over the material before they loosen, the hat slowly slipping off his fingers. Everything sounds dull. He can distinctly hear faded conversations in the hallway and sounds from the speakers outside, muffled by the walls, just soft chatters and quiet creak of the door opening.

He opens his eyes and looks at who’s just entered, and his heart drops when he sees Pete, who is closing the door behind him.

He swallows as his nerves begin to ignite; like one small spark will send the entire system explode like fireworks, resulting in him either breaking down or losing it in front of Pete. He can do this, though. Surely Pete’s only here to tell him that it’s lunch time. Or maybe it’s soundcheck.

When Pete’s eyes meet him, his body goes tense at the hardened look on Pete’s face.

“You _broke up_ with Brendon?”

His nerves begin to go off, setting an endless chain reaction that got his palms and forehead sweaty and his heart rate faster than it has ever been.

“Patrick.” This time, Pete’s voice turns gentle as his expression melts into one of concern. “Did you really break up with Brendon?”

He shrugs, not looking at Pete's direction.

“Patrick.”

Figures. There’s no way he can hide anything from the older man, especially when Pete’s using that tone on him. He bites his lips when they start to quiver. “He hates me.”

“Patrick…” Pete sighs, and he _hates_ that sound more than anything else. It makes him feel like he’s disappointed Pete, which is one thing that he vows to never let it happen. “What makes you think that?”

He doesn't answer. Pete wouldn't understand. No one would understand. He knows Pete would defend Brendon—just like everyone would—and eventually, there would be no one else left to stand beside him.

He already knows how it's going to turn out. He would end up all by himself. And instead of being left behind, wouldn't it be better if he did everyone a favour and just leave?

“Patrick.”

His throat constricts. After Brendon, it's the band. Starting with Pete. He gets up on his feet and breezes his way out before Pete can stop him.

“I have to go.”

-

Avoiding Pete is hard. Pete somehow always manages to find him any time, catching him unsuspectingly and off guard. And each time, Pete’s always asking the same questions.

_“What happened with you and Brendon? Why did you break up?”_

Honestly, he just can’t stand it anymore. The weight of what he did to Brendon is still as fresh and as heavy as the day it happened. In fact, it seems to get heavier with each day, with every mention of Brendon’s name, with every question from Pete. With every glance from Spencer.

It’s hotel room night again. Their manager gets two room for them, and everyone knows it’s always going to be him and Pete in one room and Joe and Andy in another, but when the manager hands Pete and Andy the keys, he shuffles over to Andy and speaks up, all the while avoiding the look on Pete’s face.

“I’m rooming with Andy tonight.”

He tries to keep his face neutral as Joe chitters and jokes beside him about not having to suffer through Andy’s loud snores again, but his heart pounds twice as hard when he feels not one, but _two_ heavy stares on his back.

Was it a mistake to room with Andy?

He suddenly feels himself dreading the second they get into their rooms. The entire journey to their rooms is filled with nothing but Joe’s voice, and occasionally Andy’s, but he has a feeling that they’re only trying to lift the invisible tension hanging between them. The emotion radiating off of Pete is strong. So strong that Pete’s walking behind them instead of joining them, being quiet instead of goofing around with Joe.

So strong that it sends shivers up and down his spine.

When they finally reach their rooms, he ducks his head and slinks inside as soon as Andy opens the door. He immediately drops his bag next to one of the beds and sits down on the bed, sighing and taking of his glasses.

Finally. He got away from Pete at last. The whole thing has got his head twisted like a tightened bottle cap, and he wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep and forget everything.

But then he stiffens when Andy clears his throat. “So.”

Andy couldn’t have possibly known, right?

He gingerly gets off his bed and shuffles through his bad for a shirt. The one way he can see himself getting out of Brendon-related conversation with Andy at the moment is taking a shower. Then, after he finishes, he’s going to urge Andy to shower before Andy can reel him into a conversation. And when Andy’s in the bathroom, he’s just going to pretend he’s sleeping.

“Patrick, hey.” Andy calls, his voice gentle as he places his hand on top of his, halting his movement. “Can we talk?”

Blood pounds in his ears. He wants to say no. He doesn’t want to talk. More specifically, he doesn’t want to talk if it has something to do with Brendon, but he’s so frozen he can’t bring himself to move a muscle.

“Are you and Pete okay? You always room with him,” Andy raises his eyebrows in question, “not that I don’t love having you as my roommate, but I’m just curious.”

He shrugs, still not looking at Andy. What is he supposed to say?

“Does it have to do with Brendon?”

His throat suddenly constricts, and his mouth feels dry. How does Andy know that it’s about Brendon? Does anyone else know? How do they know?

Do the fans know? God, if they know, there’s no doubt they’re sending him hate. It’s going to be their main argument and proof that he’s not suitable for Brendon.

“Patrick.” Andy calls him again, pulling him out of his reverie. “You okay, man?”

He shakes his head to push the thoughts out of his head. He doesn’t need them while someone else is in the same room with him. “I’m fine, yeah.”

“And Brendon?” Andy presses, but at the same time trying to be gentle. “You fine with him?”

With his throbbing headache and sore muscles and what happened with Pete, he really doesn’t want to talk about Brendon. “Can we not do this right now?”

Andy backs off, thankfully, and goes to the other unoccupied bed. “I’m just saying, you should at least talk to him. Give him a closure if you really want to end it with him.” “

Yeah, right. Brendon seems happy going out with his friends. Brendon doesn’t need any closure. And Brendon certainly doesn’t need him to suddenly waltz back into his life.

“Quit being annoying.” He eventually musters out, not knowing what else to say.

“I'll stop being annoying,” Andy replies as he sits down on his bed, “if you'll stop being stupid.”

-

He just can't do it anymore. He's tired. He's tired inside and out, and everything is too fast and too loud while he's still and quiet. Everyone's talking over each other, shouting and yelling and whispering and murmuring.

And his voice is drowned out by theirs and the ones in his head.

He wishes everything would just stop and be quiet. Give him a moment to breathe. Give him a moment to _think._ But with all the chaos that’s happening around him and inside him, he doesn’t know where else to hide to have even a _second_ for himself.

If he goes to the bus, they guys will find him and ask him about Brendon. If he wanders around the arena, the hectic backstage will keep him his nerves on edge all the time. If he goes even _anywhere,_ Marcus would keep a close eye on him. And even if he manages to get away from it all, he still can’t escape from his thoughts.

He just can’t win, can he?

He slides down on the floor of the bathroom in their bus, back against the wall as he pulls his knees to his chest. He drops his head and tries to keep his breathing under control, but they come out stuttering, shaking.

He’s finally alone, but he can still hear the sound of the passing and honking cars outside, the humming of the air-conditioner, the screams inside his head. He can’t stand another second living with his guards up all the time, constantly looking over his shoulders whether people are looking for him—talking about him and laughing at him and making fun of him—and constantly having to _try_ to ignore the mess in his head.

Would it be better if he just… disappears?

-

Joe has woken him up that morning to head to the stadium. Pete and Andy are already at the dressing room, reading the letters that their fans sent them and going through all the gifts and presents and drawings.

He’s standing quietly by the door, watching as the other three enthusiastically chattering and admiring the gifts laid out on a large table. All he really wants at the moment is to be left alone, to _be_ alone, but he knows every little movement from him is being watched closely by the guys, especially Pete.

And it sucks, because he feels like all the last bit of freedom he has is ripped away from him. It’s bad enough that he can’t even run away from his thoughts, and now he can’t even hide from people. Inside or outside his head, there’s just no way to escape.

Andy gestures him to come to the table and hands him a fanmade mug. He turns the mug over in his hand, eyes running over the drawing of the band with their logo. There are four same mugs— each for one of them.

He stares at the drawing, thumb running over it lightly as everything becomes a dull buzz again around him. He can’t focus on what the guys are saying; it’s like his brain goes grey and static and blocks out every word that tries to enter his ears.

Joe tugs at his arm and shows him a watercolour drawing. “Hey, look. They drew you and Brendon.”

His grip around the mug unconsciously tightens.

Andy looks at him, raising his eyebrow. “Speaking of Brendon, where is he? He hasn’t been coming to the tour since day one.”

“Stop asking me about him!” He snaps and smashes the mug on the floor, his chest heaving up and down as the sound of his breathing fills the quiet room. Pete, Joe, and Andy are gaping at him, so do their wife and girlfriends and kids, and that’s when he finally realizes what just happened.

He swallows and casts his gaze downwards, and then his eyes widened at the shattered pieces of the ceramic mug that their fans made for them. _For him._

“Oh- oh God.” He sinks down to his knees and attempts to pick the pieces with his shaking fingers as his breathing begins to get fast and shallow. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe he just destroyed something a fan made for him. The drawing of them on the mug is also destroyed— Pete, Joe, and Andy are in one piece, but he’s the only one that’s separated.

And broken into pieces.

The back of his eyes begin to burn in frustration. He can still fix the mug. He can glue the pieces together, and it’s going to be fine. No one will ever notice a thing. It’s just an accident.

He hisses in pain when he accidentally cuts his finger against the one of the jagged pieces.

“Patrick, let me—”

“No!” He shoves when he feels a body beside him, and he freezes at what he just did. He turns his head, eyes wide and colour draining from his face. “J- Joe, I— I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

But Joe only stares at him, not even an ounce of anger in his eyes, only worry and concern. “Are you hurt? Your finger’s bleeding.”

He pauses. He… he pushed and _yelled_ at Joe and yet Joe is _worried_ about him?

“Patrick?”

He looks up at Andy, who has the same expression as Joe’s, and then to Pete. They’re all looking at him. Meagan. Marie. Meredith. Bronx. Saint. Ruby. Everyone’s looking at him.

Looking at him like he’s crazy.

His insides churn and his throat constricts. His mouth opens and closes, but no voice comes out. Pete takes a step towards him, and that’s when his instinct just takes over.

He stands up and runs out of the room as fast and as far as he can.

-

He’s not— he’s not crazy. He’s not crazy, okay?

Just because he accidentally— _not on purpose—_ snapped, destroyed a gift that a kind fan sent him, snapped again, and shoved Joe to the floor does _not_ mean he’s crazy. He’s perfectly fine. He’s— he’s able to think. He’s able to talk. He’s able to stand. He’s able to breathe.

All the more reasonable for him to dump his medication in the first place. He doesn’t need them to function. Because he’s _perfectly_ fine.

Then why do they look at him like he’s crazy?

He sits down in the store room, alone and far from everyone, and tugs at the root of his hair until he grits his teeth in pain.

He’s not crazy. He’s still in control of himself.

It’s just— it’s just an episode. Everyone has an episode once in a while.

He doesn’t need his pills.

-

No one brings up the incident. Everyone is pretending that it didn’t happen, but he can see the way everyone is walking on eggshells around him. He can see the discrete glances thrown in his direction. He can almost hear what they’re thinking of him.

What pains him the most, though, is he can tell how they’re trying to keep the kids away from him.

He collapses on the couch in the dressing room—no one else is inside, thankfully—and buries his face in his hands as the back of his eyes burn with frustrated tears. His jaws are clenched in an attempt to stifle down his sobs, and he just wants to curl up somewhere quiet and dark. He wants to skip the concert tonight. He wants to skip the rest of the tour, for that matter.

He’s tired. He doesn’t want to do anything. He’s reached his limit.

He just wants to shut down.

Was this how Pete felt back then?

Tears have streamed down his face, and it hurts— _stings_ —to even open his eyes. It hurts to even breathe. When will everything end? Will it _ever_ end?

“Uncle Patrick?”

He quickly wipes his tears with his sleeves when he feels a tug at his shirt, and he opens his eyes to see Saint beaming up at him with a small plush toy in his hands, held out towards him. He takes the toy, confused.

“When Bronx is sad, I always give him this. Then he's happy again.” Saint’s face lights up with a toothy grin. “Be happy, Uncle Patrick.”

And he bursts into tears again.

-

A week and a half.

The tour will end in a week and a half, yet he feels empty.

He finds an empty room at the venue the performing for the night, and he’s just resting when he hears the door creak open.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought Andy’s here.”

He tilts his head back to see Meredith standing by the door. “He’s not.”

He closes his eyes again, figuring that she’d leave it at that, but then she calls him. “Uh, hey, can I ask something?”

He sits up straighter as he tries to pay attention to her when all he feels is not talking. “What?”

“Do you need someone to hear? Or listen?” Meredith offers, her voice soft, but full of concern. “I mean, I’m sure the guys have asked the same thing, but if you need an outsider—” She smiles and gestures to herself.

He’s flattered at Meredith’s attempt to cheer him up, and instead of answering her question, he attempts to return her smile, no matter how heavy his muscles feel. “You’re not an outsider. You’re one of us now.”

“You know what I mean.” She rolls her eyes fondly. “A _girl_. Or someone who knows nothing about your history.”

Before he can reply, Andy appears from the door, saving him from having to answer her offer. “Patrick, hey, we’ve been looking for you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You found me. Why?”

“Join us for supper tonight? Brendon’s gonna be—” He involuntarily makes a noise at the back of his throat, but Andy continues, his voice firm yet gentle at the same time. “Patrick. Listen, Brendon’s going to be there, but just talk to him, okay? You don’t have to get back together with him, but just talk and give both of you a closure so you can guys can move on. I’d hate to see you, _both_ of you, suffer any longer.”

Once Andy and Meredith leave, he rests his head against the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling with Andy’s words still echoing in his mind.

_“Give him a closure.”_

Maybe… maybe he owes Brendon that, at least. After everything they’ve gone through together for the past ten years, they need a proper ending. Not a hanging one.

But is he ready to say goodbye?

-

It’s hotel night, again. After the concert, they head back to the hotel to clean up, and he takes his time. He lets Andy shower first while he lies down on the bed, feeling like something is pressing down against him, something tugging at his head and weighing at his guts. He feels cold and hot at the same time— his body feels cold but his face burns.

He doesn’t know why or how it happens, but his eyes begin to sting with hot tears, and the next thing he knows, he’s curling up on the bed and keeping his eyes closed and head down. His shoulders aren’t even shaking; he isn’t even sobbing. He’s just crying silently on the bed, and he doesn’t even know why.

“Patrick, you okay?”

He nods. He doesn’t even realize when Andy has finished showering or even hear the sound of the door opens, but he’s endlessly thankful and glad that Andy can’t see his face. The last thing he wants is to make Andy worry even more about him.

“We’ll wait for you downstairs, okay? Go take a shower.”

 _We._ Does that mean Brendon’s there, too?

Instead of answering, he nods again, keeping his face hidden until Andy is out of the room. Once he hears the door closes, he rolls onto his back and slowly opens his eyes. Tears fall down the side of his temples and to the pillow under him.

Everything’s really coming to an end, isn’t it? He never would have thought the day would come. He never thought both of them would separate.

But deep down, somewhere inside, he’s been expecting the moment. He knows their relationship—his life—is too good to be true. He can’t have a loving relationship and a wonderful career and a healthy mind all at the same time. One of them is bound to burn, collapse, and start a chain reaction that will bring the other two down.

And he can feel the other two slowly cracking and crumbling down.

_“I’m, um, Patrick.”_

_“Brendon. It’s really nice to meet you.”_

He bites his lip as he tries to keep his breathing slow and normal. All good things must come to an end, right? This is just another part of life, right?

But when will the suffering end already? It’s been _months_ , and he’s exhausted—mentally and physically. He dreads when he has to get up every morning. He dreads having to meet and talk to people. He dreads having to pretend he’s fine in front of everyone.

He just wants to _stop._ Stop getting up every morning. Stop meeting and talking to people. Stop pretending he’s fine. Just… stop.

Stop all the suffering.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and reaches for his bag on the floor and rummages for a bottle of aspirin. He swallows down two, and when he places the bottle back inside his bag, his hand bumps into another bottle. He takes the bottle out, then stares at the content.

There’s only a bunch of sleeping pills left. He used to take them once every few nights, then once every night before it escalates to a couple or a few every night. He feels pathetic that he can’t even have a decent sleep without depending on some pills to help him to. He didn’t get a good quality sleep, but he’d pick sleep over staying up with his thoughts throughout the night every time.

He shakes the bottle in his hand, the rattling sound of the pills echoing in the room. If he takes the pill now, then by the time he meets up with the others, he’s already sleepy and drowsy and he can use the excuse to go back to the room early. He doesn’t have to stay down there any longer than he should. Deciding that that’s a good enough plan, he twists the bottle cap open and down two of the sleeping pills. After he places it inside his bag, he drags his feet to the bathroom.

Instead of getting in the shower, he turns the tap on for the bathtub. He just wants to drag everything out as long as he can. He’s not ready to meet Brendon yet. He’s not ready to say goodbye yet.

After stripping off his clothes, he slides in the tub until his head rests against the ceramic edge and closes his eyes, the hot water feeling like it’s easing the knots in his muscles.

Maybe… maybe he doesn’t have to say goodbye. Brendon’s happy, so he must have already forgotten all about him. He doesn’t want to go down at the lobby, with the rest of the guys, to see Brendon with a new person, standing so close to one another, smiling, laughing. In love.

Like everyone else is. The guys all have their own significant others, their own _families_ , and where does he fit in with everyone? He’d be the only single person in the group if he goes to meet up with them. He’d be standing in the background, like he’s meant to.

Onstage or offstage, he’s always meant to be in the background. Hidden from everyone. Unimportant. An extra character in everyone’s story.

His breathing begins to even out as his body slides down further into the tub; the sleeping pills already taking effect. It wouldn’t even make a difference if he’s there or not. It wouldn’t even make a difference if he… if he exists. Pete and Joe and Andy can create another band— hell, Andy and Joe already have their own bands. The three of them have their own business. Fall Out Boy is just one of them. If Fall Out Boy is gone, then it’s just another band they can cross off their list.

The fans would move on. They’ll find new bands to love, new lyrics to decipher, new songs to sing along.

He’s just a fleeting moment everyone can afford to miss. A split second in everyone’s lives.

Just a blink, and he’s gone.

Nobody would even think twice or spare a glance when he’s alive, so there shouldn’t be any difference if he’s not.

Because he’s just a background. A split second. Replaceable. Forgettable.

Unimportant and unwanted to everyone.

His family. His friends.

Pete. Joe. Andy.

Brendon.

His fans.

_“I love you.”_

_“We love you back.”_

_“We've been missing you to death.”_

_“You saved my life.”_

_“I'm so glad you exist.”_

Like a burst dam, all the voices from his friends and fans and his thoughts fill his mind until his head feels like it’s about to explode. Their voices and the ones in his head all mesh together, screaming over one another to see which side is louder. Stronger.

_“Those kids, they need us. We understand them and what they’re going through, so if we’re gone, who’s going to make music for them? Who’s going to be their voice?”_

His eyes shoot open, and he finds himself underwater. Panic begins to rise, and he opens his mouth to scream for help, but as soon as he does it, water rushes into his throat, making him choke and dizzy and _he can’t breathe_.

His fingers are desperately trying to cling to the slippery edge of the bathtub as he thrashes in the water, trying to come up to the surface, but everything feels heavy. His body feels like it’s sinking more and more, and instead of a bathtub, he feels like he’s in the middle of an ocean.

A vast, empty ocean with nothing but the horizon out of reach.

A wide ocean, cold, filling and pressing against his lungs and blocking air in and out and he can’t _breathe, God, he can’t breathe, hecan’tbreathe, he’sgoingtodiehe’sgoingtodiehe’sgoingto—_

_“Patrick!”_

A pair of hands pull him up from under the water, and he immediately clings on to the _warsmsafehome_ body tight, coughing water and wheezing oxygen and crying tears all at the same time.

“B- Brendon— I—” Sobs won't stop tearing at his throat, as if they were trying to get out at the same time but stuck in the small pipe.

“It's okay.” Brendon hushes him, soothing and quiet, but his voice is shaking too, like he's also crying with him. His arms around him are so tight that he can feel Brendon trembling against him, and it just makes him hold Brendon back tighter. “Patrick, I got you, I promise.”

He can't hear Brendon's voice over the sound of his own wheezing and coughing, and he knows he should stop talking, but he can't. All the words that he kept behind his mouth before are now bursting and spilling, and everything is just a shaking litany of _don’tletmegodon’tletmegoI’msorrydon’tletmego_ and Brendon's _I'mhereIgotyouI’mhereIgotyouI’mhereIgotyou._

Between him desperately gasping for air and Brendon whispering comforting words, Brendon is also barking and roaring out orders, his voice just on the edge of breaking.

_“What the fuck are you standing there for?! Call the ambulance!”_

He cries harder, so hard that his head is aching, because he's scared. He's scared, he's safe, he's in pain. He manages to get only little to no oxygen into his lungs. He can still feel the burn left behind when water rushed into his throat and down his trachea, he can still feel death reaching out for him, its fingers grazing against his skin before they wrapped around his wrist to bring him to the other side, but Brendon—

Brendon managed to pull him up before anything could happen. Brendon managed to reach out for him before it's too late.

“The ambulance is coming. It's going to be okay.” Brendon murmurs, pressing a kiss against the side of his head as he tightens his arms around him. “You're going to be okay.”

He closes his eyes, body growing tired and cold, and he knows he should keep his eyes open, he should stay awake until the ambulance comes, but Brendon's warmth and the lack of oxygen force him to close his eyes, and he eventually gives in to the dark that is slowly creeping around his vision.

_“Patrick? Patrick, stay awake, c’mon. Patrick? Patrick!”_

-

When he opens his eyes, he’s in a different room. A dim room, too blurry to make out the details. As he lies in the silence, he can’t help wondering if everything was just a dream. Was it because he misses Brendon so much that he appeared in his dream? Was that why he dreamt of drowning? Because he’s been thinking of leaving the world?

Was that why Brendon was there? Because his subconscious wants Brendon to save him?

He lets out a sigh, and that’s when he realizes a strange ache in his throat. He tries to swallow the pain away, but it feels like two sandpapers brushing against each other.

Now fully conscious, his eyes pick up a source of light from one side of the wall, and he blinks a few times to get a clearer view.

There are two, no, three silhouettes. One of them clad in white, and the other two—

Brendon and Pete.

So it wasn’t a dream? He really did drown?

He tries to make a sound to catch their attention, but nothing comes out. He can only stare and wait until, hopefully, one of them notices him.

A strong, sterile smell enters his nostrils, and his brain finally manages to connect the pieces together. He’s in a hospital, and Brendon and Pete are, highly likely, talking to a doctor. His ears strain to listen to what the doctor is saying, but the doctor’s voice is too quiet and too low to be carried into his room.

He opts to shift his attention to Brendon and Pete’s expressions instead, and they seem neutral at first.

Until Brendon’s arms drop to his sides and Pete is stepping forward to the doctor.

_“He what?”_

His body immediately tenses, and he tries to get up on his elbows to look at what’s going on. Why is the atmosphere suddenly changing? What did the doctor say?

Most importantly, why does Pete look so angry?

The three of them talk for a little while longer until the doctor nods and Brendon and Pete shake his hand, and then it’s just Brendon and Pete in the hallway, talking quietly with each other. Pete leaves not soon after, and he holds his breath when Brendon turns to look at him before making his way inside the room.

He couldn’t have been ay more glad that the doctor didn’t hook him up to the ECG machine, because if the doctor did, then Brendon would see and know just how fast his heart is beating the closer he gets. He tries to stay calm as he keeps his eyes on Brendon’s, brown and warm and just as he remembers.

His chest flutters when Brendon sits down on the bed with him by his feet, and he’s all too aware of the distance between them, of Brendon’s warmth and scent, of the goosebumps trailing on his arms and the back of his neck. He licks his lips. “W- where did Pete go?”

Brendon looks hesitant to answer his question. “He’s, um— he left before fans know what’s happening. We’re trying to keep this away from the public.”

It’s going to be impossible, though. Brendon’s image is just as big as Pete’s, if not bigger, so fans will know either way. That, or it’s going to be a rumour floating around the webs.

They fall into another silence again, but he can tell that gears are turning in Brendon’s head, like he’s trying to pick his words carefully. He swallows all his nerves down when Brendon finally looks at him, his expression full of solemn, but failing to hide the concern underneath it.

“Patrick, I need you to be _completely_ honest with me, okay? I won’t get mad, I swear. I just want to know.”

Curiosity and fear begin to rush through his veins, but he tries not to show it on his face. “O- Okay. What is it?”

“Patrick, did you— Were you—” Brendon closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “Patrick, were you trying to leave?”

He tilts his head in confusion. “Leave? What do you mean?”

“Leave, you know— me. Everyone. The world.”

As soon as he hears the last word, his blood runs cold with terror. Did Brendon really think he was—

He shakily reaches out for Brendon’s arm. “I— Brendon, I _swear_ I didn’t. I promise. I didn’t— I _wouldn’t—_ ”

“Baby, hey.” In a blink of an eye, he has Brendon’s arms wrapped around him, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s crying again. “It’s o—”

“Brendon, I _swear._ I wasn’t going to kill myself. I wasn’t— I wasn’t committing suicide!”

He pushes Brendon away from him to look at him in the eye to convince Brendon, but the only thing it does is break his own heart instead.

Because he can see doubt flickering in Brendon’s eyes.

“Brendon, you— you trust me, right?” His voice trembles with mixed and intense emotions. He doesn’t know what to feel. Regret? Sad? Angry?

Deserving all the scepticism and distrust from Brendon after what he put him through?

Brendon places his hand atop his blanket-covered legs. “The doctor said he found traces of sleeping drugs in your system.”

He drops his head and closes his eyes, pushing out all the air in his body in a short sigh. “I didn’t. That wasn’t my intention at all. I’ve been having trouble sleeping, so the pills are the only thing that’s been helping me.”

He only lifts his head again when Brendon places his hand on top of his. Brendon’s expression may look neutral to outsiders, but he’s known him for almost ten years. He knows Brendon inside and out like the back of his palm.

And he knows Brendon is torn between believing and feeling apprehensive of his words.

Instead of saying anything, Brendon pulls him into a hug. A tight one, and he doesn’t waste any second placing his hands on Brendon’s back to pull him closer.

“I'm just glad you're okay.”

He can feel tears beginning to well up in his eyes again from Brendon's words, because _God_ how can he be so _stupid_ to think that Brendon doesn't care about him?

His fingers clutch onto the fabric of Brendon's jacket, and he takes in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

Brendon shakes his head lightly, whispering against his shoulder. “We can talk about it later. Right now, you need to rest.”

“I feel fine.” He mumbles in reply, though he knows that Brendon won't take no for an answer.

When Brendon pulls back, he's already missing his warmth. “They got the water out of your lungs. If they didn’t— If Joe hadn’t— _Patrick—_ ”

His heart clenches when Brendon stumbles over his own words and pulls him to his chest. Brendon is trembling against him, his arms tight around him just like back then, but this time, he can feel wetness on his shoulder.

“Brendon…” He places his hands on Brendon’s back to soothe him, but it seems like there’s no effect. Guilt weighs in his chest. He doesn’t know it would affect Brendon _this_ much.

“Patrick, _God—_ ” Brendon chokes out, and it breaks his heart hearing Brendon like this. “The doctor said if we hadn’t brought you to the hospital, if the water had remained in your lungs, you would— _Patrick—”_

Tears spring out of his eyes when Brendon’s voice breaks at the end, and suddenly he realizes just how _wrong_ he’s been feeling all this time. Brendon has always cared about him. Brendon has always loved him. Brendon has _never_ hated him.

“I’m sorry.” He croaks, face buried in the crook of Brendon’s shaking shoulder. “Brendon, I’m sorry.”

For once, in silence and in the dark, he feels like he’s found his way back to land again.

-

The doctor lets him leave an hour later after making sure that all water has been removed. It scares him, to be honest, when the doctor told him that he could have died from drowning still if the water in his lungs wasn’t removed.

He's escaped death twice, and he has a feeling that in the next one, he won't be so lucky.

He snaps out of his thoughts when Brendon squeezes their linking hands, and he swallows. Brendon is bringing him back to his hotel room, where Pete, Andy, and Joe are waiting for him, no doubt.

He doesn't… he doesn't want to see anyone, for now. The event earlier has got him feeling tired and heavy and tense, and he just wants to bask himself in silence and darkness to get everything off the edge.

He just wants to be with Brendon.

Then, it's like an epiphany, a sudden realization that comes crashing down on him.

He wants to be _with_ Brendon.

After everything, after running away and leaving, he still wants Brendon and no one else.

“What are you thinking about?” Brendon's voice echoes in the quiet and empty hallway of the hotel.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He knows Brendon knows that he's lying, again, and it breaks his heart because he _wants_ to tell Brendon what's on his mind, but he just _can't_ , even when Brendon had promised that he wouldn't leave him.

When they reach the door, he unconsciously shuffles closer to Brendon, almost hiding behind him. “Are— are the guys inside?”

Brendon places a comforting hand on his back. “Yeah. It's just the three of them. Pete won't let anyone else enter the room.”

Speaking of Pete, he immediately remembers how Pete reacted when they were talking to the doctor. How angry Pete looked.

He swallows. “Is Pete angry? At me?”

The look on Brendon's face is more than enough of an answer for him. He looks down at his feet as Brendon tries to soothe him.

“Everything's going to be fine, alright?”

“What if it won't?”

Brendon presses his forehead against the side of his head. “I'll make sure it will.”

They stand there for a moment in front of the door, just breathing in the silence with each other. He knows that the second the door opens, hell awaits him.

“You ready?” Brendon asks as he pulls away.

He takes another deep breath before finally nodding and giving Brendon’s hand a squeeze. He lets Brendon slide the key card into the slot and watches as the door opens with a click.

Bracing himself, he pushes the door wide and steps inside, and he is immediately greeted with worried and relieved cries from Joe and Andy.

“Patrick!”

“We’re so glad you're okay.”

He returns both hugs from them, but his eyes flick over to Pete, who is standing far behind them and tight-lipped.

He tries to ignore Pete and focus on Joe and Andy instead, but it's hard not to when there's an obvious tension in the air. Even when Joe sits him down on the bed, even when Andy is bringing him a drink, even when Brendon is sitting down beside him, the tension is electrifying and heavy and lighting up all his nerves.

Joe and Andy are talking to him, but neither of their voices seem to reach his ears. The only thing he can hear is his breathing, Pete's breathing from the other side of the room, and the quiet sound of knuckles cracking.

“Can you give us a moment alone?”

His stomach drops at the voice. He doesn't dare to look up, because he has a feeling that Pete's not looking up either.

“Pete…” Joe starts, but he snaps his mouth shut when Pete lifts his head up, his eyes withholding flame, body tensing like a bomb just waiting to go off.

“Everyone leave.” Pete instructs, but when no one makes a move, he raises his voice, a thunder against the walls of the room. _“Now!”_

Joe and Andy are shooting him sympathetic looks before shuffling out of the room, although Andy lags behind to whisper to Pete, “Go easy on him.”

Either Pete doesn't seem to hear Andy or he's not paying him any attention, because he's quiet, _seethingly_ quiet, but his eyes speak volumes. He's _beyond_ furious, and it terrifies him because Pete gets angry, yes, but _never_ furious.

“Brendon. Leave.”

He clutches onto Brendon’s hand, not wanting him to leave. He doesn't want to be left alone with Pete— _angry_ Pete. But Brendon just squeezes their hands together before pressing a kiss to the side of his head, murmuring, “I'll be right outside the door.”

Pete is still not looking at him as Brendon leaves the room, and even when the door is closed Pete doesn't say anything.

He looks down at the bed, fingers fidgeting with the white bedsheet. One minute passes, and Pete is still quiet.

One minute fifteen seconds.

One minute thirty seconds.

One minute forty-five seconds.

Two minutes.

“Are— are you mad at me, Pete?” He stutters, breaking the terse silence in the room. “Did I— did I make you angry? I'm sor—”

“Just—” Pete interrupts him, his eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just shut up, okay, Patrick?”

He closes his mouth. Pete's talking to him, so that's a good sign, right? Even if it's just to tell him to shut up.

“I'm so angry at you that I don't even— _God—”_ Pete lets out a harsh breath through his nose before opening his eyes.

And his own eyes begin to sting. “Pete…”

“Don't.” Pete snaps, glaring with his red and glassy eyes. “You don't even _know_ what you did wrong, so you don't get to talk! Patrick, honestly, what the fuck were you thinking?! _Sleeping pills?!_ ”

“I—”

“Not.” Pete hisses. “A word. I'm not done.”

He nods obediently. He wouldn't know how to explain himself to Pete either if he continues to talk.

“Do you honestly think that sleeping pills are the way to solve your problems?” Pete's tense, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are turning white. “Patrick, _you_ of all goddamn fucking people should know better! _You're_ the one who told me that I shouldn't take them! That I shouldn't depend on them! _You're_ the one who gave me shit for even _thinking_ of them!”

He winces at Pete's booming voice as his fingers clutch the bedsheet out of fear. He can't deny everything that Pete said, because he remembered the memories clear. He remembered all the bad memories that came when Pete's insomnia became worse.

“What's your excuse, huh?” Pete asks him, a hint of challenging tone present in his voice. “Look at me, and tell me what's your fucking excuse.”

His eyes start to water when he looks up at Pete, who is clenching his jaw, but he doesn't miss the way Pete is fighting back his own tears.

_“Tell me!”_

He bites his lower lip, eyes squeezing shut at the intensity in Pete's voice. Tears have already leaked out from the corner of his eyes. “I— I—”

“You what? You couldn't sleep?” Pete scoffs and crosses his arms. “That excuse is not valid. Try again.”

His shoulders slump, defeated, and when he opens his eyes, the tears stream steadily down his face. “I— I have no excuse. I'm sorry.”

“You're damn fucking right you're sorry. Patrick— _God!_ ” Pete yells out in frustration and throws his arms up in the air. “Do you honestly think that no one would notice how you've been acting? Do you honestly think that no one would _care_ about you?”

He keeps his mouth shut, eyes downcast.

“Do you know how many times _Bronx_ asked me _why_ _Uncle Patrick is sad_? Do you know how many times he asked me to make you happy again? Do you have _any_ idea how worried _my kid_ is for you? And do you have any idea how _useless_ I feel when I can’t even help my _best friend_ through his problems?”

Sobs begin to erupt in his chest, but he tries to keep them down, tries to keep them trapped in his throat so they won’t get out, but the more he tries to stifle them, the more tears fall.

“Do you know what I'm mad the most about? That you didn't come to _me._ Or Brendon. Or even _anyone!_ ” Pete continues his tirade, clearly still heated up, but upon seeing the state of his best friend  at the moment, his body droops, and his voice becomes softer. “Am I— Patrick, are we _not_ your friends?”

He wipes the tears off his face and shakes his head as a small hiccup escapes him.  “I— I just don’t want to drag you back to the past.”

“You really are something.” Pete mutters as he sits down on the bed beside him and pulls him into a tight hug. “I’d do it all again for you. You’re my best friend, idiot.”

He wraps his arms around Pete, fingers clutching the back of Pete’s shirt, and lets out all the tears and all the pain he’s been holding in for months. Pete runs his hand up and down his back, soothing him and holding him. “We made a promise, remember? What a catch?”

His eyes squeeze shut at the mention of the song. It hits too close to home, and he can’t even perform the song without crying halfway. He’s sure the fans noticed it during their Save Rock and Roll tour. He’d thought he would be fine singing it, but he had no idea how personal it got when he performed it in front of thousands of other people.

Which is why they didn’t put the song on the setlist anymore.

“It’s my promise to you that I wouldn’t harm myself anymore,” Pete whispers as he continues to stroke his back, “and I still keep my end of the promise. Can you do that for me, ‘Trick?”

Hearing his old nickname, a fresh wave of tears leak from the corner of his eyes, and he pulls Pete closer. They may be in their thirties, but deep down, they’re still in their twenties. They’re still their old selves ten years ago, struggling with their own mental health and insecurity while trying to stay alive and sane at the same time.

Pete begins to hum the song, and he opens his mouth, stuttered hiccups making their way out as he shakes his head frantically. “D— don’t. Pete, don’t.”

The melody softly echoes in the room, accompanied with quiet sobs and sniffles and hiccups, and everything feels twelve, thirteen years ago, when he broke down in front of Pete and Pete held him the entire time. It’s just them and a dark bus and a cold bunk while everyone else was sleeping.

“Promise me you’ll talk?” Pete asks again, keeping his voice soft. “Whatever’s bothering you, even the littlest thing, I want you to talk. Call me, text me, pull me out of whatever I’m doing.

“Because what you _think_ is inconvenient to someone else, it’s not to me.” Pete states, firm. “You’re not an inconvenient. Not to me, not to the guys, and _definitely_ not to Brendon.”

He tenses when he hears Brendon’s name, then shakes his head. He takes a deep breath before replying. “I don’t want to scare him off.”

Pete pulls him back at an arm’s length to look into his eyes, pleading, and his heart breaks a little at the redness in Pete’s eyes. _“Please_ talk to Brendon. You don't have to protect him. He's not a kid anymore.”

He shakes his head again, another drop of tear slipping down his face, and he lifts his hand to wipe them away. “He doesn’t need to know my baggage.”

“Patrick.” Pete grips his arms, his face stern. “That is _not_ how a relationship goes. You know Brendon would never leave you. _Everyone_ knows that. You know him better than anyone. You know he’d never leave for something like this.”

Another bout of sobs hit him, and he lets Pete hug him because he knows it’s true. He knows Brendon is not shallow, knows Brendon wouldn’t judge him for his mental illness, but his own insecurity held him back, feeding him with various versions of _what-ifs_ that eventually led him to keeping everything inside.

Until everything explodes in his face.

“Talk to him, okay?” Pete squeezes him one last time before standing up to go to the door. When Pete opens it, Brendon is already standing outside, hair ruffled and clothes messy and eyes bloodshot like he’s been crying and hasn’t had enough sleep for the past month.

He looks lost and clueless, like a kid he knows fourteen years back who was full of big dreams of making it in the industry with his band consisting of other teen boys like him.

Pete gives him a nod, then slips out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. He watches as Brendon closes the door behind him and turns off the light; the only source of light now is the light from outside, from other buildings.

He hears a shuffling sound, and then the bed dips beside him.

“Baby, come here.”

He scoots over to the side where Brendon is sitting and rests his head on Brendon’s shoulder, arm tentatively placed across his torso. He soon relaxes when he feels Brendon’s fingers tangled with his and Brendon’s arm across his back. “How did you know I’d be in the bathroom?”

“You took a while to come down. Joe was the one who suggested we should check up on you.” Brendon murmurs as his fingers idly playing with Patrick’s hair. “We heard splashing in the bathroom, and that’s when we saw you.”

Joe. He wonders how everything would turn out if Joe hadn’t suggested it. Would he still be alive? Would he still be here? With Brendon?’

“How do you feel?”

“I don't know.” He mumbles.

Brendon's quiet sigh twists his heart into a dull ache. He knows what Brendon's thinking— how they're talking again but he still doesn't open up to him. He buries his face in Brendon's chest, savouring the warmth and the scent that he's missed so much, especially now that he has Brendon's fingers threaded in his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For not taking my pills,” he closes his eyes, voice muffled by Brendon shirt, and continues, “for ignoring you. Yelling. Lying. Not talking to you.”

An aching lump grows in his throat with each word, and by the time he reaches the last one, he chokes out, forcing the words past his throat and out of his mouth. “For leaving you.”

Brendon kisses the crown of his head and stays there. He’s quiet, and for a moment, only the sound of their breathing fills the silence in the room. “It’s okay. I’ve forgiven you a long time ago.”

His throat bobs. “I gave you plenty of reasons to leave me. Why didn't you?”

“Because I just need one to stay.”

He looks up, curious, at Brendon, who smiles down softly at him and is stroking his hair. “You. You still love me, don't you? That's a good enough reason for me to stay.”

His vision blurs with tears again, and he lowers his head so Brendon can’t see them. After everything, after what he put Brendon through, how can Brendon still choose to stay with him? How can Brendon be confident enough to say that he still loves him?

“Why?” He eventually croaks out. “I kept a lot from you.”

“Patrick, I knew what you were doing and I appreciate it, but I'm an _adult._ I may not understand what you're going through, but at least let me _help_ you. Let me be there for you.” Brendon whispers, like an octave higher would crumble the wall of solitude around them. “Let me take care of you. Just don't push me out. I swear I won't leave you.”

He keeps quiet; the more Brendon talks, the more his tears seem to come out.

“You need to have a little bit of faith in me. I've been with you for ten years, and I'll be with you for a million more.”

“Humans can't even live that long.” He tries to joke to ease up the atmosphere, but his chuckles are stuck in his throat as sobs take over. Brendon's arms around him in an instant, pulling him closer, and he rests his forehead on Brendon's shoulder, waiting for his sobs to quiet down. “I just don't want you to leave me.”

“You _have_ to trust me,” Brendon places his thumb under his chin to tilt his head up, “I'll do _anything_ to prove that I'm staying no matter what.”

He drops his gaze and places a hand over Brendon’s, the innocent contact resulting in butterflies fluttering in his stomach. It’s been so long since they’ve been this close. Physically and emotionally.

“Patrick.” Brendon calls him again, and he looks up at the younger man. Even though the room is dim, he can see the dark rings under his eyes and the stubble that lines his jaw; he can see how tired Brendon is, but when he looks into his eyes, he sees nothing but relief and calmness and tenderness. “I'll go to therapy with you. We can take it together. And I'll even start taking medications. Whatever happens, we'll go through everything _together_ , I promise.”

He bites his lip when he feels a familiar lump at the back of his throat. “You don’t like taking pills.”

“I love _you_ more.”

When he feels Brendon’s fingers on his face, wiping away the tears, he closes his eyes and lets out a dry chuckle. “Aren't adults not supposed to cry?”

“Fuck that shit. When it's just you and me, when it's just us two, you can cry as much as you want.”

He wants to laugh at Brendon’s brashness, but he also wants to curl up and soak in Brendon’s presence and just cry to his heart’s content. In the end, he just stays quiet and listens to Brendon.

“Sometimes you just can’t make it on your own, and that’s okay.” Brendon runs his fingers through his hair, fingers kneading at the scalp gently.

“Even if you can’t see me, if you can’t hear my voice, just know that I’ll be right beside you.” Brendon continues to whisper, and that’s when his eyes leak more tears, and he just lets them fall down silently. “I’ll try to be as supportive as I can, I promise.”

He bites his quivering lips, nodding.  Brendon strokes his hair gently before dropping a light kiss on the crown of his head. “If you need space, just say it. I’ll understand. I’m not going to be upset. I’ll just be right here waiting, okay? Just call my name, and I’ll come to you.

“If for even _one_ second you feel like no one loves you, just think of your family. They’ve been there for you, _with_ you since you were born, since before we even met each other. Keep that in mind.”

His throat closes up at the mention of his family. He still remembers how his mother reacts to his decision about wanting to go around the state to play music instead of going to college. He remembers the hesitation and understanding look in her eyes.

_“If that's what you want. I trust you, Patrick.”_

And when he came out to her, instead of facing with wrath and a disgusted reaction, he was faced with a gentle hug instead.

_“I love you. You're my son, and I'll always love you no matter what.”_

“Then think of your friends. I assure you, other than your family, Pete probably loves and cares about you the most. He was mad, sure, but that’s only because he cares about you.”

_“Hey, Patrick. You're my best friend, you know that?”_

_“I promise to get better for myself if_ you _promise to get better for yourself too.”_

“And then, think of me. If it gets too dark for you, just think of us. We’ve gone through a lot, we’re still standing strong after ten years. Even when the band split and our bands got so much shit when we came out, even through all that, look at where we are now.”

He sniffles quietly as more tears fall, memories come rushing to him like water from a broken dam. How they used to meet in secret, sneak quietly around arenas to meet up with each other, late night phone calls when everyone else was already asleep.

How they had to keep their distance in public.

“Look how far we've come. Ten years is a long time, and I've learned so much, grown so much during our time together.

“And I owe it all to you.”

He twists his fingers in Brendon's shirt, his breathing coming out small and stuttering. He wants to say something, but no words manage to form in his brain.

Brendon's hand slides down to the back of his neck, tilting his head so his ear is pressing against his chest. Brendon's heartbeat is right beneath his ear, and it's drumming softly, steadily.

Strong.

“When you feel like giving up, remember that your heart is doing everything it can to keep you alive. It keeps beating for you no matter what.”

His head is tilted up when Brendon places his fingers under his chin, and when he sees Brendon’s soft expression and gentle smile, the ache in his chest slowly disappears. His tears slowly stop.

“Your heart is strong. Be as strong as your heart, okay?” He closes his eyes when Brendon leans down to kiss the top of his head. Neither move to pull away, and if he’s honest, he wants to stay like this forever.

In the dark and just the two of them, the blanket of comfort and security and warmth over them, it’s better than the feeling of being home.

He untangles his fingers from Brendon’s shirt, opting to wrap his arms loosely around him instead, and shifts his head to hear the soothing sound of Brendon’s heartbeat again. “Brendon?”

“Yeah?” Brendon hums, his voice just as quiet as his.

“You—” A small yawn begins making its way out of his mouth, and the soft stroke of Brendon’s fingers in his hair seems to pull him further into sleep. “You’ll be here when I wake up, right?”

Just one second before sleep consumes him, he can feel Brendon’s smile against his hair.

_“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”_

-

When he wakes up the next morning, he finds himself lying on top of Brendon, who still has his arms around him and is sleeping soundly. Blood rushes up to his face; it’s been a while since he’s had a good night’s sleep, and maybe Brendon has something to do with it, or maybe not. But either way, for the first time in forever, he feels… _not_ dreadful after waking up.

Now that it’s bright, he can finally take a good look at Brendon— from his rough stubble to his scattered freckles and the bags and rings under his eyes and the crinkles at the corner and the wrinkles on his forehead.

And it hits him.

Brendon is no longer the sixteen, seventeen year old boy that he first met. He’s no longer the nineteen year old boy that he had a crush on. He’s no longer the twenty-one year old boy that just became his boyfriend.

Brendon is a thirty, going on thirty-one, year old _man_ who has stuck with him and loves him for a decade and more despite everything.

He closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of Brendon’s neck, relishing in the feeling of being surrounded by comfort and home. Before he manages to fall asleep again, a couple of knocks on the door pulls him back from slumber, and he reluctantly detaches himself from Brendon to open the door.

“Who is it?” Brendon slurs out from sleep as he rubs his eyes.

He opens the door and sees Pete, Joe, and Andy standing outside, everyone looking serious, but Andy’s the only one who greets him with a nod and a smile. “Can we come in?”

He steps aside to make way for them and sits down on the bed, next to Brendon, who has already sat up against the headboard. Pete clears his throat and looks at him. “We need to talk about the tour. We’ve already talked to the manager about it, and she said it’s up to you to make a decision.”

He blinks. “Decide what?”

“The tour.” Joe speaks up. “I think we should just cancel the rest of it. After what happened, you need a long rest.”

He looks down at the bedsheet. The doctor has also said the same thing— that he needs to rest and cut the tour short. But… “What would the fans say? They’ve been looking forward to the tour, and to find out that it’s cancelled…”

“I'll take the fall.” Pete chimes in. “We'll just say that I have family matters or something.”

He shakes his head. “Fans are going to expect a replacement. You guys can have replacements, but I can't, so the tour needs to continue.”

“You don't have to feel obligated, you know?” Andy says. “The fans will understand, I'm sure.”

_We've been missing you to death._

He can't. The fans _saved_ his life. He owes the fans too much to cancel a tour just because of his mental health. “I'm going to continue the tour.”

“Patrick…” Brendon sighs, sounding tired.

He flicks his gaze up to Brendon, trying his hardest to stand by his decision and look convincing. “Brendon, I promise. After the tour, I'll go straight home. I'll take a break.”

“Fine. But I'm staying here with you.”

He nods, then turns to the rest of the guys, who eventually cave in with his decision.

It’s just a few more concerts. With Brendon and Pete and Andy and Joe with him, he can handle a few more. He can handle going up the stage for a few more nights, performing in front of thousands of people without the need to shut down in the middle of a set. And when the tour is over—

He can finally go back home.

-

A small jolt from the bus wakes him up from his slumber. He shifts in his position, trying to find a comfortable one, then sighs as he nuzzles against the soft fabric that carries Brendon’s scent. He opens his eyes and is immediately greeted with the sight of Brendon’s black shirt.

He blinks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before looking up and seeing Brendon’s sleeping face. He looks around in the bus, spotting Andy reading a magazine on a couch adjacent to them and Joe making a snack in the kitchen. Pete’s voice floats from the bunk area; he’s probably Facetiming his family. A soft smile spreads across his face, and he snuggles closer to Brendon—head in his lap—and idly traces on Brendon’s torso through his shirt.

This feels nice. After months of being trapped inside his head, he almost forgets how it feels like to be close to Brendon. How it feels to be free.

How it feels to have his mind go quiet for once.

“What's the matter?”

Brendon’s hoarse voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Nothing.” He smiles, bashful as he looks up at him from under his lashes. “I'm just really glad you're here.”

When Brendon smiles down at him, he swears he can almost see a bright light radiating from the younger man.

His sun is back.

And it's warming and brightening his life back.

* * *

_"You sure you didn’t want to go back?”_

_“Yeah.” Brendon nodded, smiling as he assured his friends. “It’s okay. I’m just gonna go through all the songs again. You guys can go home first.”_

_“Okay, if you’re sure.” Spencer eyed him, both suspicious and curious, but with a final nod, he left the studio with Ryan and Jon, Pete following not too far behind. He walked back into the room they were in earlier, only one person left sitting in the room, on the couch, focused on the sheet of paper in their hands._

_He closed the door behind him. There’s only silence now—it’s just them and guitars and drums and workstations and a secret only they knew._

_He walked towards the couch before hesitantly sitting down. From the corner of his eyes, the person had already put down the paper they were holding earlier. He bit his lip, stifling a smile that’s threatening to split his face. Shyly and slowly, he crept his hand towards the other until their pinkies linked together._

_He cleared his throat, looking up at the ceiling as butterflies filled his stomach. “I— I’ve missed you.”_

_Patrick smiled, looking down at his lap as a blush blossomed on his face, and leaned his head on Brendon’s shoulder._

_“I’ve missed you too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> comments? :)


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